


Maturity Is A High Price To Pay For Growing Up

by sian1359



Category: Agent Carter (TV), RED - Fandom, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Growing Up, Slice of Life, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8174641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: Victoria, over the years.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TLvop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TLvop/gifts).



> Title is a quote from Tom Stoppard.
> 
> Once more (to be identified later) saved my ass with the editing.
> 
> I had so much fun developing a time line that fit all these fandoms into a whole. I don't expect to write more, but boy, could I. Thank you to my recipient for her suggestions.

*******

**1963 New York City**

The kidnapping itself isn't why Torri feels frustrated and scared. With her dad a former member of the RAF and her mum the head of one of the world's most imminent intelligence agencies, Torri's been learning how to protect and take care of herself all her life. She might only be thirteen, but she's already freed herself from the handcuffs and chair she'd been forced into while her captors recorded her yelling curses as they did a half-arsed job of hurting her.

Of course, the only thing the tape and the Polaroid they'd also taken are going to get the kidnappers is a SHIELD strike team. While Torri expects that she rates sending their top field agent and that being rescued by the dashing Alexander Waverly would definitely be fab, the daughter of Margaret Elizabeth "Peggy" Carter, should not wait to be rescued. So she goes to the tape recorder to see if she can fashion some kind of weapon since the noise of breaking apart her wooden chair will likely bring her captors back.

_How could I be such as spaz? This is going to kill mum. Dad, too, but he's going to use this as the final nail to divorce mum and take us away, and this time she's not going to fight it. Sure, I love Nan and Pappy and it would be posh to live in Britain full time but not without mum, despite what I might yell at her when she's too busy for us. Grant's going to hate me too, say it's all my fault._

The kidnappers left Torri's purse, one of her mum's Pan Am carry-ons, on the table next to the recorder. They'd gone through it and removed anything they thought might be of use, but Aunt Ana showed her how to use her Parker pen and nail file as weapons when she was ten, plus the end of the nail file should work as a screw driver. She's not sure what she will find inside the tape recorder, but surely there will be something –

She can't stop her hiss of disappointment when she finally removes the top of the machine. There are rubber belts inside, but none of them are long enough to make a useful garrote even if she could manage to cut one apart (never mind that she doesn't have the height or strength to take on any of the men in that fashion that she's seen so far).Everything else is bits of metal and plastic, all of it further screwed in or soldered, except for several long coil springs. It takes her almost as much time to free one of the springs as it did to remove the handful of screws on the cover, but once she's done, Torri smiles. The end of the spring has a sharp tip that she might be able to use once she breaks or loses the pen and file, and there are three of them. Plus she has the recorder itself, set within a suitcase that she can wield like a bludgeon.

So she might be able to hurt them, maybe enough to get one of their guns for herself. Then it will come down to whether she can shoot faster than they do, whether there are more than three kidnappers, and whether they really care about keeping her alive as they've implied. That's a lot of whethers and any one of them going wrong is going to leave her in a worse place, assuming it doesn't leave her dead.

She should probably come up with a different plan.

Torri looks at the spring again. If she can straighten several of the coils, it might be long enough to use it and her nail file to pick the lock on the door. But her captors are out beyond that door, leaving her with the same problems as her first plan. Better to escape without having to confront her kidnappers at all. (Even though she really, really wants to hurt them for destroying her life). Plus there's no way she's going to be able to uncoil the spring. A living _Captain America_ couldn't uncoil these springs.

That leaves her the window. It's high up toward the ceiling, definitely higher than she can jump, and she's not sure how wide the ledge is or whether there is something up along it that might prevent her from catching hold.

If she moves the table under the window, she can probably jump and reach the ledge, but she's not sure she'll be able to chin herself up far enough even if she does. Setting the chair on top should make up that difference, but only if she climbs up on the top of the back of the chair. Torri's pretty sure she can do that; what she's not sure is whether she can also hold onto the tape recorder in case she needs to use it to bash the window out.

She decides to try.  She's fortunate the table isn't so heavy she has to drag it and make noise that might get overheard. The chair goes up easily too. She decides to remove her pullover and the shirt underneath; she can use the shirt to cover the outer casing to mute the sound if she needs to break the window, and she wraps the pullover around her waist, after stringing an arm through her purse to have it hang down in front of her pants so she can take it with her. She'll have to pull it off before she pulls her way through the window, but she figures throwing the purse through first and listening to how long it will take to hit the ground will also give her an idea of how she's going to need to fall. In addition, she can then wrap the pullover around her hand to work out any remaining glass shards.

Standing on the seat of the chair doesn't give her enough height to get a good look at the window setting, but getting up on the arms do and Torri is glad she doesn't need to actually balance on the top of the chair's back. The window is as small as she feared, more for venting air than viewing or providing light. It's also pretty narrow and she's not exactly petite. Not just tall, but it's beginning to look like she'll inherit her mum's bristols as she already needs a B cup.  It's a simple latch hook holding it closed, however, so she doesn't need to break the glass at all, and now that she can really look out of it, she sees the room she's been kept in is underground. She won't have any drop, as the ground is only inches from the bottom of the window.

All in all, her escape is anticlimactic. Torri pushes the window out and breathes a sigh of relief that it stays up without having to put a stick or something up to keep it from closing or blocking her way. She then shoves her purse and tops out before grabbing onto the outside ledge and starts pulling herself through, clawing and wriggling to get her boobs and then hips through.  As she stands up afterward, the tears start, not so much because she's hurt or even scared anymore, but because she's covered in dirt and blood and her bra has been rucked up on one side exposing her breast, and of course, it's when she's trying to adjust herself that the SHIELD team advances and she's abruptly being run across the dirt lot to the cover of several abandoned vehicles.

One of the female team members has retrieved the rest of her stuff and quickly hands it over so she can cover herself, but it's too late to not want to die from embarrassment. The agent who'd hurried her along had, indeed, been the object of her stupid crush and so now saw not only her tit, but her tears. The tears that fall more freely to add to her mortification, and now she's also got the friggin hiccups and –

"Torri. Torri. Victoria!"

To her complete amazement, Torri is quickly caught up by her mum and engulfed in a hug of epic proportions.

"Mummy, you came," Torri chokes out between sobs into her mum's breasts. "You never –"

"Of course I came!" Mum whispers back fiercely. "And your father is on his way, now that we're securing the place. Are you hurt?"

Torri shakes her head. "Not really. I only yelled for the tape so they'd get it sent and give you clues sooner."

"And it worked. They got it to your dad – "

"Oh, Mum, I'm sorry. Daddy's going to take Grant and me away after this –"

"Hush, pet, the only thing that matters right now is that you're safe."

"But it's my fault. I let them take me –"

"None of this is your fault, Victoria Angela! None of this. Nor will anything that happens after this be your fault."

Torri falls quiet, not because she believes her mum, but because she knows she's not going to win against the formidable Peggy Carter. She sniffs back her tears and snot and nods as she also squeezes her mum hard before letting go and taking a step back.

"I rescued myself."

"Yes you did, Luv. I am very proud. Let's get you clean up and you can tell me all about it."

***********

**1972, Munich Germany**

As she listens to the last notes of _Star Spangled Banner_ , Victoria can't help but feel pleased with herself. She hadn't come into the Games expecting to medal; has been more concerned with not only representing her country but also representing her gender, and she has done exactly that. Head to head against the men, she's not just exceeded her own best scores to date, but has also bested most of the field, coming in fifth.

She accepts the forced congratulations from her lower placed teammates with a smug smile, letting it turn more natural when their coach comes up and offers his own. She in turn offers him her thanks for his work, meaning it but also thankful that for her, the Olympics are over.  She's had fun competing over the years, in showing up the arses who refused to believe a woman could match their skills.  She's more than proven them wrong at this point and without her father there to cheer her on any longer due to the advancement of his cancer, the whole production has become somewhat tiresome. Retiring after a good showing in the Olympics is acceptable.

It's not like she's going to have much time to continue in the sport anyway. It's time to get a job using the skills she's gathered all her life.

"Oh, darling, you were wonderful!"

Victoria turns around in disbelief. Standing before her is her Aunt Ana, looking radiant and beautiful and, god, Victoria hopes she looks half as good when she reaches Ana's age.

"Ana?" Much to Victoria's consternation, she feels tears starting to form.  When she first started competing, Victoria's brother and grandparents used to come to some of her events along with her father, but never her mother or those friends who'd been around when Victoria had been growing up in America.  She's come here to the Olympics with no one to root for her –

Ana opens her arms. "Jarvis is with the car," she says as they hug. "Can you get away or are you expected to do something with your team?"

Victoria didn't even look back toward the others; she's been an outsider all through her competitive life as far as the other competitors treat her; even her fellow Brits here haven't been particularly welcoming. "All of my obligations are done. I would be happy to go with the two of you."

Ana beams and tucks her arm around Victoria's. They are both skilled enough to slip through the crowds without drawing attention, most of which are on the medal winners anyway – especially what little press is bothering to cover the shooting events.

"Jarvis, of course, can talk specifics with you, but I thought you looked fabulous. So commanding and positively dangerous," Ana says as they leave the venue and can hear each other again.  "We are all so proud of you dear."

 Victoria accepts the praise awkwardly, partially because she still feels it's her fault her parents separated, but manages a 'thank you' because she still believes manners matter even if most of her peers seem to be too cool to have them. Ana leads them away from the range and over to a parking area that has been blocked off, for VIPs, Victoria guesses, not that she believes that Howard Stark has bothered to come see her shoot.

Jarvis also holds out his arms for her, and Victoria goes into them willingly, her tears once more threatening. It's been at least five years since she's seen these two, though she's received regular cards and letters, and while she doesn't blame her father – or even her mother – since they've all had to give up so many things to keep safe from the kind of people who still feel Peggy Carter is a threat, Victoria does miss her aunties and uncles desperately.

After all three of them wipe away the tears and sniffles, Jarvis opens up the door to the back of the limousine for her, ever the gentleman and a proper English butler. Victoria ducks in and nearly spills back out again when she sees her mother already seated in the car.

"Mum?"

"Oh, Torri. I told you before. I will always come for you."

 

*******

**1973, London, England**

"What brings you to Century House, Ms. Brandt?"

Victoria raises a single brow, something she's perfected over the last few years, first against Grant and his stupid questions, then against the boys she's competed against whenever they challenge her right to even be there. "I am here to take the job you offered me six months ago," is all she says, however, impressed that for a man of his age, he doesn't stumble over her chosen honorific like so many other even younger men do.

"Yes, we have your application here, but – "

"Look, Major Cowley," Victoria cuts the Scotsman off. She knows she's coming off as too impatient, but it wasn't like his organization _hadn't_ reached out first.  "If you're not the person I need to speak to, can we skip wasting each other's time and have you call on ahead? I'm sure you have your own business to attend to – "

He has his own look to communicate mild irritation and she nods her head in acknowledgement of it and shuts up. Obviously there is a proper way things get done here and if she wants to be a part of it, she has to put up with the procedures. It's not even that she's feeling impatient, only nervous. She's spent her entire life proving her value, but this one is really important.

"Very well," is all _he_ says, though, before pulling a file out from under a stack of them and opening it. "Ms. Victoria Angela Brandt," he reads. "Both parents deceased. You and your brother, Phillip Grant Brandt hold dual citizenships from both the United States and the United Kingdom. Last year you participated in the Summer Olympics as a British citizen, coming in fifth in the mixed 300 metre free rifle. Congratulations ," he adds, actually looking up from the file to her for a moment.

She has the feeling his words are sincere, yet also that he's not a man who's impressed by much. To her embarrassment, she finds herself blushing, though he's already looking back down so she controls it quickly.

"You have a joint honors degree in Politics and International Relations from LSE, your Masters in Public Policy from Bristol, and you speak five languages outside of your native English. All very impressive, just the type of candidate we are looking for. As are half a dozen other intelligence and law enforcement agencies. So tell me, Ms. Brandt, why have you graced MI6?" He looks up again, his expression now belying any admiration he might have implied in listing her qualifications.

Victoria expected this question; she's spent quite of bit of time trying to answer it for herself. What she isn't sure is about, though, is how much of the truth she should offer, at least to this Major Cowley,  since it's not just her own secret she is keeping. She knows, however, that once the truth eventually comes out – and it will, it always does – her omission will guarantee her dismissal as well as keep her from getting another security clearance in the future.

She takes a deep breath. "My mother is not actually deceased," she starts, keeping any cringe from the look he shoots her internal. "When I was thirteen, I was kidnapped and afterward my parents decided the best way to keep it from happening again was to move Grant and me to England and eliminate any record that the Director of SHIELD, Peggy Carter, was our mother."

Cowley sits back in his chair, clearly stunned, although he pulls himself together admirably quick.

"Well, I guess that makes the question of why us, all that more important, Ms. Brandt."

She flushes again. "I will never be anything but Peggy Carter's daughter if I join SHIELD. While I do hold US citizenship, I still consider England as my home and the Queen my sovereign, so I never considered applying to the CIA or any other American agency. The global ones like UNCLE and the IMF are still headquartered in New York. I suppose I thought I'd end up a member of the Defence Intelligence Staff when I chose my coursework, but after what happened last year ….  MI6 is the closest we have to Mossad."

"Meaning?"

She can't help lifting her chin. "Meaning there is no reason why my skill with a rifle isn't as important as speaking Russian, Polish, or Yiddish."

"So you want a _license to kill_." Cowley's scorn makes her feel like a child, but also gets her back up.

She lets some of her temper bleed into her own tone. "James Bond is a fictional character, Major, and SPECTRE has nothing on real terrorist groups like the FLQ, Black September, or Red Brigades. Who need to be stopped. It has been my belief that MI6 is prepared to do whatever is necessary to protect our country's interests, including killing terrorists. If that is incorrect, please tell me now so I may take myself and my application elsewhere."

While she won't call what he's doing with his lips a smile, she senses she's amused him nonetheless. "You are indeed your parents' daughter, Ms. Brandt. Your father was a stubborn SOB that I had the pleasure of serving with in Belgium near the end of the war."

It is Victoria's turn to be rocked back in her seat from surprise. She knew her dad had been in the War, that he had been a hero, but almost everything about that time has been about her mother, not her father. "So you already knew the truth about my mother?" She doesn't ask if she is being tested since the answer is obvious.

Cowley pauses, then shakes his head. "I knew your father twenty-five years ago. I never knew he married until your application came across my desk. My condolences on his passing."

Victoria nods her acceptance; thinking about her father doesn't leave her feeling as raw as she did even a month ago, but she still feels his loss like a hole in her soul.   

"Getting back to the subject at hand, you do realize the subject of your mother will be amended in your file if you get hired."

"MI6's purpose and trade is secrets, Major. I'm pledging my prospective livelihood and potentially my life at some point on the assumption that MI6 keeps them."

Once more she thinks her answer has pleased him, not that his voice or expression – that even his questions soften.

"You are prepared to go where your country sends you? Even if that leads you to New York. Or Belfast?"

She meets his hard eyes straight on, neither surprised nor ashamed that they've looked into her life enough to have unearthed her past relationships, including last year's fling with a fellow athlete with strong family ties to Sinn Fein. "While I think such postings would be a waste of my considerable knowledge and skills in world affairs, again, I would trust that MI6 serves Her Majesty and its own people well, and so would go where I am sent."

"Are you willing to give up your American citizenship?"

"I am aware that I may be asked to, but it is not my understanding that doing so is a requirement."

Cowley just continues to glower at her.

"Yes, I will do so, if I am asked."

He closes her folder and stands. Instead of dismissing her as she's expecting, however, he extends his hand.

"Welcome to MI6, Ms. Brandt."

*******

**1977 Monte Carlo, Monaco**

Victoria's target is just coming away from the bar with a new drink when she enters the room. He's American and a cliché, from his overloud voice to his inappropriate evening wear. He's not the only man who shows a lack of understanding or care as to what Black Tie means – thank you, Jarvis – but he is easily the most ridiculous looking in his burgundy-colored, non-pleated shirt that only serves to also highlight his ill-fitting jacket, lack of tie, and all too exposed waist band. 

Victoria wants to shoot him just on principle.

Shooting is not on the agenda, however. She needs to make David Whelan's death look accidental.

This is Victoria's first wetwork assignment, and she isn't sure whether the manner of death she must deal is an unfortunate coincidence or a test to determine if she has the skill and the stomach to pull off what she's been training to do. Now that the moment is before her, Victoria isn't all that sure herself, though at least she doesn't also have to worry about any moral ambiguity in regard to whether Whelan deserves to die or not.

MI6 confirmed Whelan's signature on the recent bombs set off in New York by the _Fuerzas Armadas de Liberación Nacional Puertorriqueña_ , as well as at the airport bombing in Spain and the Metro bombing in Moscow earlier in the year. Together, they resulted in nearly six hundred deaths, whether Whelan was the actual bomb maker or the just the instructor. Of course, it's because of Whelan's work with _both_ the IRA and UVF that he is an MI6 target; his expanding international market persuaded various other agencies he needs to go, but his history means MI6 gets first crack at him.

Victoria isn't even all that concerned that Whelan's death won't be clean. Finding out he has a severe allergy to peaches, of all things, has given MI6 the perfect opportunity to hide the assassination. All she needs to do is get Whelan to ingest the liquid in the capsules she's carrying, preferably from his hotel room, where she can insure he isn't able to call for assistance once he's stricken. If he's the type to carry epinephrine to combat anaphylaxis, she also has a malfunctioning auto-injector she can switch with his real one.

Getting invited to his room is Victoria's biggest worry. As she suspected when her breasts first started showing, she's got a nice, healthy pair of them, but her nose is much too long for her face to be considered pretty, and while she can dress and move like royalty or like a stripper – thanks again to Jarvis and to Ana – she's not an eye-catcher. Her handlers told her not to worry about it; that Whelan was definitely a breast man, and that's all he'd care about. Now that she sees him ogling the waitresses and some of the other charity-goers, she figures they were right. She needs only to get her breasts in his vicinity and then let the letch become even more of a cliché.

Deciding there is no reason to drag things out, Victoria begins making her way through the room, taking note of certain people but deciding there is no particular threat. She's under no illusion that she's the only agent in the room, just as she's certain Whelan isn't the only scumbag in attendance. He's the only one on her agenda, though, so she makes sure her path begins to cross with his, not that she just heads directly for him. MI6 has given her a few thousand quid to use to enhance her role, so she trades in two thousand for chips and then takes a seat at a blackjack table a couple of tables away from Whelan. 

Winning more than she's lost – this time thanks to Uncle Howard – she tips the dealer well as she gets up and looks around as if she's deciding where to try her luck next. Whelan is also on the move, once more a full drink in his hand. Victoria again starts to maneuver close, though not toward him directly, thinking she'll try to get a seat at whatever table he chooses this time, and see if they can strike up a conversation.

She can manage roulette, poker or even baccarat if she has to, so of course he's moving to one of the _Trente et Quarante_ tables. Well, losing badly might be another way to garner attention, and perhaps she can convince him to give her pointers –

Whelan abruptly stops and turns around as she's just passing behind him. The hand with the drink smacks into her right breast. Before Victoria can even prepare, the liquor and ice is spilling down her front, staining flesh and silk alike. For a second she's mortified, especially as he starts pawing her in an ineffectual attempt to help and while expressing his own embarrassment and an apology.

It's just as she's going to push him away that it dawns on her that she has the perfect opportunity to do the first part of her job here and now so instead of voicing her outrage and trying to escape from him, she gives a faint, rueful laugh and accepts the now empty hand that moves to grip her arm and steer her over to where some of the staff are coming forward with better ways of helping her at least wipe off her décolletage. She then accepts his over-sized jacket and his invitation to retreat from the spectacle they've made and slip out of the now ruined dress, his offer of a dressing gown while he sends someone to buy her something new a little too polished and glib, not that she reacts to what is obviously a signature seduction move.

"I'm very good at guessing women's sizes. Especially with my hands," he adds, the hand moving from her arm to around her waist.

Victoria avoids rolling her eyes and instead lets him tuck her next to him. He leads them through the casino floor toward the front door and his room next door at the Hotel de Paris Monte Carlo. As the doorman pulls the door open for them, Victoria gets a spray of liquid across her face and shoulder. The scent along with the taste confirms it's blood; the way Whelan drops, nearly pulling her down too doesn't confirm the shot is fatal, but seeing the instant glassiness of his open eyes as the doorman helps her regain her balance does.

Once more Victoria is stunned into inaction. The doorman begins to pull her away and it's only as she's taken into an office that she becomes aware of her surroundings; that in addition to the doorman, there is another woman with her, one with compassionate eyes and a concerned expression, who is holding onto Victoria's hands with both of her own.

"I'm alright," Victoria tells them. She even is, by most definitions, and a part of her is even embarrassed by her immediate reaction, since what she was going to do to Whelan would have allowed him to suffer longer.

"Of course you are," the other woman says. She's still holding onto Victoria's hands. "It was a horrible thing that happened, but you will be fine." She turns her head when the door opens, then lets out a sigh of relief when a gentleman who certainly knows how to dress properly for a charity event in Monte Carlo comes into the room.

"What have we got?" the doorman asks the new arrival, even as he's opening desks drawers and gives a pleased noise of his own when he comes up with what looks like a nearly full bottle of Midleton Very Rare, if Victoria's remembering the bottle's label correctly

God, but what she wouldn't give for a glass of Irish Whiskey right now.

Her wish is immediately granted, though she's only been poured a fingerful instead of two. She sniffs it first then takes a sip, letting the flavors burst over her tongue, because no matter how much she wants to pound it back, even if it's not Midleton, it's also not Jack Daniels and it deserves to be savored.

"There you go," the woman remarks, looking pleased when Victoria opens her eyes.

It's taken Victoria much too long to realize that none of what has happened or is happening here is a standard response by employees or guests to a shooting, but the whiskey has done its job. The doorman and the posh gentleman are huddled together near the door, exchanging information or discussing options, if Victoria has to guess, and every few words the doorman keeps looking over her direction, his expression getting darker as the toff seems to be getting more amused. Although their conversation is faint enough Victoria can't make out specific words, she can hear traces of accents, American for the toff, but that non-accent that comes from trying to hide his origin, and something Slavic for the doorman to go with the woman's faint German undertones.

"Do you work for Whelan?" Victoria doesn't think she's been made, but even if it's convenient to avoid dealing with the police until she's better under control, she's not sure being taking under the wing of Whelan's people just because he was going to try and have sex with her will ultimately help her cause once she does have to explain why she was with him when he was killed.

"No, we don't," the woman answered. She gave Victoria's hands one last squeeze before letting go and letting herself be helped up from her crouch by the doorman.

"You're not police or Interpol either." While Victoria has little doubt there are a few foreigners working for one of Monaco's law enforcement or intelligence agencies, she does have trouble believing they would pair up a former American and a Russian. As far as Interpol was concerned, she might believe the Russian and the woman could be partnered, but it was obvious the American was just as much a part of them, not the third wheel, and that was not the Interpol Victoria knew. That left one of the truly international agencies, such a SHIELD, UNCLE, or the IMF, assuming they were telling the truth, of course, about not working for Whelan.

Or they belonged to someone working the same side as Whelan, but to cross purposes or for a direct rival.

"Thank you for your assistance, but I believe I have an appointment with the police." Victoria rises with all the dignity she can, still covered in blood and sweet vermouth. Unsurprisingly, the American toff moves to stop her.

"I don't think that's the wisest course of action for you to take right now," he says, exuding charm and earnestness.

Only Victoria grew up around Howard Stark, so she knew how to spot a con job even before her MI6 training.

"I think that's exactly the action I need to take," Victoria replies. "Unless you plan on keeping me here against my will?"

"It's not like that," the woman tries next. "We …." She stops and looks over two the other two, receiving a resigned nod from the Russian and a scowl from the American.

"Your original training officer used to work with our boss. We were asked to keep an eye on you as well as the situation."

Victoria is nearly as surprised it's the Russian explaining as she is by what he's saying. "Excuse me?"

"George Cowley and Alexander Waverly came up through MI6 together," the woman took over. "After Major Cowley learned he was being given a team in CI5, he expressed some concerns to his old friend with how some of his operatives were being sent into the field too early. You are one of two he is most anxious about, something about how your own expectations and need to prove yourself are playing right into the hands of those who are more concerned with advancing their own careers than keeping their agents alive. When the details of the Whelan mission came to our organization, Mr. Waverly decided to see if the Major's concerns were valid and sent us out to act as observers or back-up."

"Obviously your bosses didn't bother to tell you that Whelan is on someone else's watch list, people who don't care that MI6 has the older grudge," the toff adds.

"The good news is that the _Zimnij Soldát_ is good enough that he rarely leaves collateral damage. But I have to admit, it does appear as if MI6 isn't really concerned about that."

Victoria turns to the Russian. "You're saying that not only did MI6 know the Soviets were also after Whelan, but that the Soviets wanted him bad enough to send the _Winter Soldier_?" Never mind that her voice both squeaked and became husky. The Winter Soldier is _the_ legend in her profession; the world's best assassin.

"Yes, to both," the woman answers. "SHIELD was the one who put Whelan's name to the bombs and released the information to all of the other agencies, including the PGU. While everyone else ceded the claim to MI6, the Soviets said only that they would not interfere with MI6's efforts to find Whelan."

"They used MI6 as their stalking horse. MI6 _allowed_ the agency to be used as a stalking horse."

All three nodded.

"So you are SHIELD agents?"

Victoria has to ask, even though she doesn't think it's true. For someone to be able to direct their own operatives to 'observation and back-up' without having too much of a stake in the game, that person would have to be rather high up in the chain of command. Victoria certainly doesn't know all of the players in her mother's agency, but she at least hopes that if her name came up as someone who might have been hung out to dry, her mum would have had someone reach out to her before she became a target.

The toff produced an ID folder. "We work for UNCLE. This is Gaby, Illya, and I'm Napoleon Solo. At your service."

"Sell it to someone else, Yank."

That coaxes a laugh from the woman identified as Gaby, and even something small that might be considered a smile from the Russian – Illya.

"Oh, I'm going to like you, Ms. Victoria Brandt."

*******

**1980 Stalingrad, Russia**

"Alamos, I'm in trouble."

_"Excalibur? Hold on. Let me go secure."_

Victoria uses the time while she waits for Gaby to come back on the line to get herself under control. She's furious, both at herself and at her bosses, though she supposes she really only has herself to blame. She knew the stakes as well as the likely consequences and outcome when she said yes to Ivan; knew that she's been held to, if not a higher standard than other agents, then certainly the letter of the law and spirit when it came to the rules. Perhaps because she's a woman even more so than because she's Peggy Carter's daughter. She's done honeypot missions as well as wetwork, so for her to allow herself to be seduced… Of course she would be ordered to kill him in order to prove her loyalty. To prove she hasn't been compromised.

She still can't close her eyes and not see Ivan fall back in a spray of red.

_"What has happened, Victoria? Are you hurt? Are you safe?"_

To her complete displeasure, tears start filling Victoria's eyes. "I'm safe, Gaby," she tells the spy who also became her best friend. "I hurt, but I'm not hurt. I've made a horrible mistake."

_"Tell me."_

"I should have listened to you. Gone to my mother about joining SHIELD after that mission in Lima. Or even the IMF. Dammit, why did UNCLE have to disband?" Even as she says it, she knows she shouldn't have; that Gaby's own wounds are still too fresh.  It's certainly not like she blames Gaby for what's happened.

_"Victoria, you're stalling. Tell me what's happened."_

"I was ordered to kill Ivan – "

_"Oh, poppet –"_

"I did it. I knew I might have to. Knew Ivan might be ordered to do the same but we decided it was worth it. No, we thought we were good enough not to get caught. I thought I was _special_ enough not to have to pay the consequences," she admits, as ruthless on herself as she is about others.

"Where are you now?"

"A SHIELD safehouse in Stalingrad. I can get out of the country, that's not what I'm calling about. That's not the worst of it."

_"Torri?"_

"I'm also pregnant."

Victoria isn't surprised by the silence. She called Gaby instead of her mother because she knows she won't be judged, just helped.

_"Do you want to keep it?"_ Gaby finally asked.

"I don't want to have an abortion." This, Victoria knows.  Just as she also knows she can't keep it. "I also don't want the child to ever be used as a pawn against me or my mother," she adds, having racked up her own enemies to go along with the ones that never seem to end with her mother. "I know it's a terrible thing to ask, but can you recommend a discreet obstetrician?  I need to keep this from MI6 long enough so that there can be doubt that the child is Ivan's before I put it up for adoption."

Victoria's guilt is growing exponentially; the only reason she knows she can ask Gaby about this is because after Gaby had retired last year, Gaby had learned she couldn't conceive and carry a child to term. 

_"You will need to be indiscreet with someone else to establish an alternative father – "_

"There's a CIA agent I can ask; I'm sure Frank will be willing to pretend to an affair –"

_"How far along are you?"_

"Two months, I think. The book I looked over at the Odessa airport says I won't show until month three or four."

_"Go back to MI6 for now. I'll get Napoleon to start paperwork to have you seconded within the next couple of weeks to the CIA for a year-long mission that has roots in something that you got involved in during the time you worked with UNCLE.  As far as a doctor, you will love mine. As for the adoption, would you consider letting Illya and I raise him? Only you, my boys, and my doctor know I can't bear a child. There are prosthetics I can use to mimic your pregnancy and once you go into labor, I can too, and be the one who brings your child home.  This way, you can know your child and, eventually, we can all sit down and tell the child the truth of its parents and why you chose their safety over your own feelings."_

Victoria sucks in a breath. Right now she is feeling undeserving of anything good, and this offer isn't just too generous, its everything she could ever wish.  She also knows how desperately Gaby and Illya wants a child, and has no doubt that they will love the baby as their own, and that they will do everything they can to keep Victoria's in the child's life. It's too perfect –

_"You don't have to decide about the last right now, poppet. Think on it, sleep on it –"_

"No. It's … There would never be better parents, myself included. The only thing I ask is that if it's a girl, one of her names is some form of Margaret or Meg, and if a boy, some form of Ivan."

_"Would Megan Alexis or William Ian be acceptable?_

"Either would be lovely."

_–_ finis _–_

 


End file.
